Masseuse - Richard Dawson

Fortune wags its tongue

Along the walkways of the bathhouse

They say the monk returned from Iceland

Unearthly boon in stow

He who possesses the Pin of Quib

Is granted eternal beauty

I am tired of men

Of kneading the knots from their bulbous backs and necks

And rinsing their filmy water

From this mew of tiles

When I heard tell of the Pin of Quib

Straight away I knew I had to hold it at all costs

A storm like a drum

Encompasses the priory

As I go on mouse-toes

Into the blind man’s chamber

And leaning over his bed

I push the blade between his ribs

But then in a flash he’s got my wrists

And he’s pinned me to the floor

I wake up gagged and bound

To a windless ochre forest

The monk’s wan face inches from my own

His breath smells like pears

He asked me then

«would you like to see the Pin?»

Retching on his filth

I nod «more than anything»

From inside his coat

He fishes a brooch

A plain pea of stone

No bigger than a thumbnail

And I can hardly believe

How very ordinary it seems

Then it dawns on me

It was all mere folly

«Yes, now you see

The Pin’s a pebble only

That which you so thirstily

Coveted over my dead body

Now it is yours to keep

You are its custodian

But first I must have your eyes

Then the circle will be whole"

I once

Could see

But now

I am blind

And all sense

Of the world is lost

Lost, lost

I once

Could see

But now

I am blind

And all sense

Of the world is lost

Lost, lost